Chapter 62: Death at a rally.

Hunter chuckled, completely satisfied with the terms. "A dungeon? Deal. I am perfectly okay with that. I get 50% of whatever loot we find in every dungeon we raid together from now on." With how special the loot she found was, he would be a fool to say no.

Zyra frowned. "That is not what I said."

Hunter grasped her hand anyway, "Deal."

"Hey..." she tried to pull her hand back. Her arguments died in her throat because he grabbed her waist and whistled to Tyrant. Very quickly, they were in the air, on the move to find another place to call home.

**

Back in the capital, the protest was gaining momentum. Malia Gravis was at its helm, screaming louder than the others through a megaphone. She had slowly become the face of the freedom fighters in the Capital in the last six years.

Malia had stood for mayor two times and lost both times, mostly because she wanted to bring genuine balance to all nations. No more rich and no more poor, but everyone living a healthy average life.

In the Capital, the unfairness was like a heavy mountain crushing the poor. There were constant, unwarranted arrests. There were unfair rules that magically did not apply to those in the first class, while the low-borns got poorer by the day. The poor worked the hardest, sweated the most, and yet, they had nothing to show for it.

To make matters worse, the mayor’s office.... with the absolute support of the Divine Soul Maiden....was implementing ridiculous taxes on everything!

They had dirt tax! imposed when someone brought dirt into the clean city. They had a noise tax, a rain collection fee, a survival tax, a beast luxury tax and more.

The people were exhausted. For a long time, no one was brave enough to say anything. They just swallowed their anger. That was until Malia, a low-born herself, decided she had had enough.

She began to write an anonymous newspaper, passing it around like a forbidden skill book. She created a secret social media platform accessed by those with smart phones and internet, shouting into the digital void, calling for equality and the total abolishment of classism which came in existence after the apocalypse.

Her posters were plastered to every wall, and those who supported her drew murals and tagged buildings to spread her message. But she didn’t stop at speeches. She made it her life’s mission to expose first-class officials and their hidden crimes.

The poor loved her like a goddess, the rich, however, hated her guts. No clan or guild dared to take her in.

She was standing on top of a bucket, screaming her lungs out. "No lotto, if the military enlistment must happen, it should be open and fair. We all go or nobody goes." She screamed into a megaphone.

The crowd cheered, the police increased the sounds of their sirens. Soldiers poured into the area, barking commands.

"Tell Trinity’s soldiers we don’t fear them." Malia shouted.

The crowd cheered louder, repeating after her.

"They would shoot you if they could," her husband, Morgan said. He was beside her, as always.... her biggest supporter, her backbone, and the only man who could make her laugh when the world was burning.

"Let them try," Malia snorted, though her eyes were sharp. "My skin is thicker than an iron shell tortoise."

This was not the first peaceful rally she had organized, if they wanted her dead, it would have happened a long time ago. She simply could not sit back and do nothing about the new law: a lotto for military recruitment!

It was ridiculous, everyone knew the rich would rig it so their children would never have to serve. Only the poor would be forced to the front lines while the rich got the medals of honor. If the recruitment had been fair, it would have been acceptable. But it wasn’t.

The low-born youths would be rounded up like cattle and forced onto the military camps. Meanwhile, the high-born kids would smoothly join elite hunting guilds. For the rich, nothing about their comfortable lives was about to change.

On the streets, thousands of low born citizens were chanting furiously, their faces red with anger.

"Remain peaceful!" Malia shouted into the megaphone. "Do not give them an excuse to lock us away! We fight with our voices, not our fists!"

"Yeah! Listen to our hero!" Morgan cheered next to her, waving a banner. "Keep it chill, everyone!"

But then, something caught Malia’s eye.

High up on the tall concrete buildings lining the streets, shadows moved. Soldiers in war armor were creeping onto the rooftops, watching the protesters below like hawks targeting field mice.

Malia’s eyes darted back to the crowd. At the edges of the street, people wearing heavy masks were suddenly pushing their way inside, aggressively moving straight toward the front lines where police officers had formed a defensive barricade. These masked people weren’t chanting. They were just moving, fast and tight but still pretending to be part of them.

Immediately, a cold, heavy knot formed in Malia’s stomach. Her danger instincts, honed from years of surviving as a low-born, screamed at her.

"Something is wrong," she whispered, grabbing her husband’s arm. Her hand was trembling. "Morgan, look at the front lines. Those aren’t our people."

"What do you mean?" Morgan asked, his smile fading as he followed her gaze.

Before they could fully comprehend what was happening, a masked man at the front raised his arm. With a loud curse, he threw a heavy rock straight at the armored soldiers.

The rock bounced off a soldier’s shield. The soldiers didn’t blink. They didn’t even issue a warning. It was as if they had been waiting for that exact rock.

"Fire!" a commander shouted.

The soldiers leveled their guns, and a deafening roar echoed through the street. They began to shoot indiscriminately into the dense crowd.

Instantly, pure chaos exploded.

"Run! They’re shooting!" someone screamed.

The peaceful rally turned into a bloody stampede. Terrified people started to run in every direction. Malia watched in horror as citizens fell to the ground, some pierced by bullets, others brutally stepped on and trampled by the panicked crowd.

"Malia, we need to go now!" Morgan yelled, pulling her toward one of the buildings.

A sharp sound echoed near them. Morgan gasped, his body jerking violently. He stumbled backward, his hands clutching his chest as bright red blood began to seep through his simple shirt.

"Morgan!" Malia shrieked, her heart shattering into a million pieces. She dropped to her knees, catching him before he hit the ground. "No, no, no! Stay with me! Press on the wound!"

Morgan’s face went pale instantly. He looked up at her, his eyes full of deep sadness, but also an urgent, fierce love. He gripped her hand with the last of his fading strength. "Listen to me, they came for you." He coughed, blood staining his lips. "You have to... run. Don’t look back."

"I’m not leaving you!" Malia sobbed, tears blurring her vision as the screams of the dying echoed around them. "I can carry you!"

"Malia... please," Morgan whispered, his voice growing incredibly faint. "The mayor... he’s going to look for a scapegoat for this riot." He coughed weakly, struggling to continue. "It’s going to be you. If they catch you, they will execute you and everything we fought for dies. Run... my love. You can only change the system if you are alive."

His hand went limp, slipping from her fingers. His eyes closed, his chest settling into a permanent, terrible stillness. ℴ

"Morgan? Morgan!" Malia cried, pressing her forehead against his chest. But there was no heartbeat. The man who had been her anchor was gone.

Heavy boots clanked on the ground. Soldiers were coming.

Morgan’s words echoed in her mind: The Mayor is going to look for a scapegoat. She knew he was right. If she stayed, she wouldn’t get a trial. She would be executed on the spot and made an example to those that wanted to become defiant.

Wiping her tears fiercely, Malia stood up. Her heart felt completely hollow, replaced by a cold, burning rage. She cast one last look at her husband’s body, bit her lower lip until it bled.

She took a Snow ant from his pocket, his half-life beast. It was passed out, and within months, if not saved, it would turn feral. Malia put it in her pocket and touched the butterfly on her shoulder, an Ironwing monarch. "It’s okay Silvie, we will make them pay," she sniffed.

Malia pulled up the hood of her jacket and vanished into the smoke and alleys of the capital.